


Corner Booth

by extension_cord



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Masturbation, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1312240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/pseuds/extension_cord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet wants to unwind with a drink after yet another hectic day at the medibay; Drift is a wicked little shit. That's really it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corner Booth

**Author's Note:**

> haha why
> 
> Disclaimer — nothing recognizable belongs to me.
> 
> Enjoy :B

* * *

 

Swerve's Bar was getting to be a regular destination. It was a distraction, it was highly unprofessional, it was plainly improper, it was —

— it was a welcome respite from the stress and bustle of the always-busy and never _not-_ frustrating activities of the medibay. 

And it was Ratchet's go-to place when his shift ended and he needed a tall glass of hot engex to help him unwind. The bar's low light and pulsing music was a sharp departure from the medibay's sterile gleam and beeping monitors; instead of seeing crewmates in pain, here he saw them relaxing and having what might be classified as _fun_. It was a pleasant change of pace, and one that Ratchet was coming to accept into his daily routine.

It was just his luck that Drift was also warming up to the idea of spending his time off-shift at Swerve's — mostly because Ratchet was there, the CMO figured, and he wasn't sure whether he should be flattered or irritated. He and the third-in-command had, in the recent months, undertaken what Ratchet would call a "relationship"; it was not a relationship of the professional nor platonic variety, though Ratchet also hesitated to use the word _love_ when labeling it. Drift, on the other hand, employed far more flowery terms to describe whatever it was they had, all of which made Ratchet roll his optics.

Not that Ratchet was ashamed or embarrassed by this newest development in his otherwise-uninteresting life — but all the same, he didn't need the 200-give-or-take people onboard the _Lost Light_ to know about it. Being seen in public and sharing a table with Drift, at _Swerve's_ no less, was the stuff of rich gossip, especially when it was Swerve's establishment in the first place and Swerve lacked the ability to keep his vocalizer muted.

Drift dropped into the bench across from Ratchet, sliding an orangey drink to the CMO's waiting hands. "Busy in here."

"Hm." Ratchet took a slow sip from the tankard hot of engex, then let his gaze settle on the 'bot seated before him. Drift looked — well, he didn't look nearly as tired as he usually did when his shift ended. In fact, there was a noticeable glimmer in his optics that was normally reserved for when they were alone, tangled in one another's arms, and certainly not when they were in a crowded, public setting. That was _almost_ worrisome. Ratchet tried to steer Drift's thoughts away from what was undoubtedly on his mind. "Have an easy day?"

"Mostly," Drift said with a shrug and a swig of his own drink. "Although listening to Magnus attempt to reason with Rodimus for hours on-end can get rather tedious."

"I'd have thought you'd be used to that by now," Ratchet offered. It was unhelpful, and he knew it, but he also delighted in seeing Drift's reactions to such needling — whether it was an impatient huff or a smarmy grin or a roll of the optics, anything that betrayed Drift's stoic and carefully-maintained façade. There was a movement over the table, and Drift's hand was sliding its way toward Ratchet's. Their fingertips touched, and the CMO fixed the 'bot seated across from him with a pointed _look_. "Drift. Not here."

An expression of mock-offense flitted over Drift's face, but he ignored the request; Ratchet, for his part, didn't pull away either, and the black digits twined with his red in careful, slow caresses. "But yes, otherwise an easy day. And yours?"

Ratchet bit back a growl as Drift's fingers massaged his wrist, then the back of his hand. Oh, the third-in-command knew _exactly_ what he was doing, and he _still_ had that gleam in his optics that made Ratchet's spark skip a pulse. "Hectic as usual," the CMO grated. "I question the necessity of a shooting range onboard the ship. More often than not it sends patients my way, and more often than not, Whirl is involved."

"Oh, but it's important that everyone stays in practice," Drift said with a grin. "You just never know when we might need to —" he took a sip of engex, then swiped it off his upper lip with a quick flick of his glossa, "— spring into action."

The CMO's optics narrowed with suspicion. "Just what are you playing at, kid?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Drift took another sip of his drink — Ratchet couldn't help but stare at the blue sheen it sent reflecting over that high-gloss armor — then continued his slow stroking of the medic's hand. Black digits encircled a red thumb, pulling at it, then moved on to Ratchet's index finger. "So? Who turned up in the medibay?"

"It's — uh. I can't tell you that." Ratchet fought to keep his composure, but it was hard to do when Drift's hand was pumping along his digit, a lewd movement that was highly reminiscent of —

_Focus_.

Ratchet cleared his vocalizer, optics settling on Drift's smirking face. "You know that as a doctor I have an oath of medical confidentiality."

Drift pursed his lips and made the accursed _pffft_ noise that seemed to be so popular onboard the _Lost Light_. "And _you_ know, as the third-in-command, I'll just see the offenders' names in Ultra Magnus' write-up tomorrow."

It was a fair point. The digits twisted along Ratchet's middle finger now, and with a soft click, his cooling fans powered on. "Atomizer," the CMO said with a cough of static, "was giving a prototypal high-powered crossbow a test-run. The result was less than savory and — uh. Keep — keep doing that, kid."

"And?"

"And I need to have a talk with our weapons engineer tomorrow," Ratchet grumbled. Drift's ministrations returned to his index finger, and the CMO took a long sip of his engex to silence the moan that was building in his throat. Drift, too, knocked back a gulp of his drink, and a moment later his left hand disappeared beneath the table. " _Drift._ Don't you —" Ratchet braced himself for a touch that never came. And then, just over the tumult of the music and conversation of the bar, the CMO heard the distinct hydraulic _hiss_ of interface paneling sliding away.

Drift leered at Ratchet. "Don't what? Engage you in polite conversation? Ask you how your day has been? You wound me."

" _Kid_ —" But Ratchet's protest died somewhere in his vocalizer, turning to static when Drift's electromagnetic field rippled over him, its energy signature charged with a heady haze of lust and arousal. Black digits wrapped tightly around the CMO's index finger, pumping in time to —

_Dammit_.

Drift shifted in his seat, gaze set on Ratchet. The glimmer that had been so prominent in his optics earlier was exchanged for a glassy expression; the ex-Decepticon's mouth fell open, briefly, before he snapped it back shut and bit his lower lip.

"Drift," Ratchet hissed, "you are the _third-in-command_ of this vessel and if you're doing what I _know_ you're doing and Ultra Magnus finds out —"

"As if he ever comes here," Drift snorted. "And if he did? What's he gonna _do?_ "

"Throw you in the damn brig is what," Ratchet said, then had to bite back another moan that was threatening to spill from his throat. The movement along his finger was blissful, striking all the responsive sensory nodes in his forged digit, sending sparks of pleasure surging through his arm. "Or — or he'd toss you out an airlock. I really — uh. I really don't think you'd want that."

"Good thing Rodimus' decisions trump anything Ultra Magnus has to say," Drift replied hoarsely.

Ratchet smirked. "Somehow, I don't think our captain would be too impressed to learn you were jerking it at the bar, Drift."

"You aren't rushing to stop me."

"No, you're right. I'm not." Ratchet leaned back into his chair and took another gulp of engex. "You know, Drift, when I secured — _uh_ — when I secured this corner booth, I didn't exactly have this in mind."

"Mm." Drift's hands worked faster, over Ratchet's finger and, beneath the table, over his spike. "You look so hot right now, Ratch."

The CMO felt himself flush. "You don't look half-bad yourself."

"Been thinking about you all day." Drift's optics had dimmed considerably, and Ratchet was happy to simply _watch_ as the third-in-command's face twitched and contorted with pleasure — having his hand serviced was just an added bonus. Drift's armor rattled against his seat as the hum of his cooling fans slowly mounted in volume. "Oh, _Primus_."

"Keep it _down_ ," Ratchet hissed. "I swear to the — _nn!_ — nonexistent gods that if you draw _anyone's_ attention to us —"

Drift didn't reply; instead he fixed the CMO with a grin that was as wanton as it was wicked. "C-c'mon, Ratch —"

Black digits wrapped tightly around Ratchet's index finger, twisting and pulling and pumping; Ratchet swallowed his groan as a minor overload coursed through his system, jolts of pleasure shooting up the neural network of his arm. He felt his frame give a harsh shudder, and then his shoulders relaxed as he slumped against the back of his chair, optics almost offlining with both relief and release, but he remembered Drift —

And Drift was bucking up into his hand, armor rasping on the edge of the table, thighs rattling against his seat. He bit his lower lip, _hard_ , hard enough to draw energon — and with a quiet, static-laced moan he came, body going rigid, rapture washing over his face.

Ratchet took in the sight before him, his spark pulsing wildly within its casing. Tremors still rocked his hand as he took a shaky sip of engex, watching the third-in-command slowly descend from his blissful high. And then Drift flashed the CMO one of his signature smiles — bright and dazzling and content — and he leaned over the table and placed a chaste kiss on Ratchet's helm.

"Yeah, yeah," Ratchet huffed, and he took one last gulp of his drink to finish it off. "You're _real_ cute. Plan on leaving Swerve an extra tip on account of the mess, or —?"

Drift considered the question. "Honestly, I hadn't even thought that far ahead."

"Of course you didn't." And Ratchet returned the kiss, equally chaste and brief, at this point no longer giving a damn what a crewmate might or might not see.

* * *

 

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :B


End file.
